


Tightrope

by MaskedShipper



Series: Learning to Trust [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, Adjusting to Life After the War, Allusions to mental health issues, Dancing, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Jack Thompson/OFC, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24187609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskedShipper/pseuds/MaskedShipper
Summary: “I was hoping we could drink until I crashed on your couch.” Jack’s eyes fell on the bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, and he reached for it, taking a swig straight from the source instead of from his glass. “Was kind of hoping I could do the same tomorrow, too.”The realisation dawned on Daniel and he nodded his sympathy, taking a seat on the recliner by the couch and reaching for the glass Jack had poured for him. “That bad at home, huh?”“S’just temporary. ‘Til I find a place of my own,” Jack clarified, but Daniel was already nodding, taking a sip of his own drink in solidarity.“However long you need.”or,A story about Daniel and Jack growing closer as they both try to adjust to life after the war as best they can.
Relationships: Daniel Sousa/Jack Thompson
Series: Learning to Trust [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1769266
Comments: 14
Kudos: 76





	Tightrope

The knock at his door this late at night was unexpected, but the broad, crooked, infuriatingly smug grin even more so.

“Sousa,” Thompson greeted, pushing the door open wide the moment Daniel opened it a crack, stepping into the apartment as if he owned the place, as if he’d been there a million times before, despite this being the first. “You got a gun in hand but no robe on--that’s what makes you a good agent.”

“What are you doing here, Thompson?” Daniel huffed and set his gun down, hiding his flustered state by moving deeper into his home to pull his wool robe on over his sleepwear, brows furrowed deeply as he watched Thompson pick up knick-knacks for inspection, passing some kind of judgement on it before setting it back down again, sometimes raising an unimpressed brow Daniel’s way before doing so. 

But now wasn’t the time to feel self-conscious about his apartment’s state. It was large enough that he was comfortable, and there was no reason to feel bad about the books he had lying around, especially not when Thompson just _barged_ in here uninvited. 

“Can I help you?” Daniel asked again, a brow raised as he tried to make sense of this. He reminded himself, again, that the fact that he was in sleepwear and Thompson was there, pressed suit and button down and irritating smirk, was no reason to feel bad. God knew what time it was and, once more for emphasis, Daniel _lived_ here. 

“I thought we could celebrate the closing of the Anderson case,” Jack said, extending the bottle of whiskey he’d brought, though he didn’t hand it over. And Daniel knew how that smile worked, knew how Jack had the charm down to a science, could sway most anyone with his words before he had to break out his fists. And it was exactly _because_ Daniel knew that that he ignored the desire to give in, his brows furrowing more deeply instead.

“We caught that perp two weeks ago. Seems a bit late to celebrate.” It didn’t change that Thompson let himself into the small kitchenette area, rummaging through cabinets until he found two glasses, already pouring drinks. “Help yourself,” Daniel muttered dryly under his breath, just loud enough for Jack to scoff, lips curling upward slightly, when he heard. 

“I never did properly congratulate you on catching him.”

“That’s ‘cause you don’t congratulate anyone for anything,” Daniel reminded, coming closer. The longer Thompson ignored this, the more Daniel’s blood became hot with worry, his stomach churning unpleasantly. “You wanna tell me what’s really going on? You hurt or somethin’, Jack?” 

The man didn’t meet Daniel’s gaze, which only made his lungs tighter. What kind of trouble was he in? He watched as Thompson stood still at the counter, eyes as heavy as his shoulders as he looked at the bottle. When he turned to meet Daniel’s eye, the smile was in place, but the illusion was already shattered, regardless of the fact that Jack seemed to cling to it. 

For a long while Thompson said nothing, instead moving to the couch and letting himself fall onto it with a satisfying sigh before leaning forward and setting the glasses of booze down, pushing one toward Daniel when he came closer, thumbing the edge of his own.

They were like that for a while, Daniel leaning on his crutch with dark, imploring eyes taking in the way Jack leaned forward with his forearms on his knees, until the façade cracked and the blond finally exchanged his grin for a grimace. 

“I was hoping we could drink until I crashed on your couch.” Jack’s eyes fell on the bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, and he reached for it, taking a swig straight from the source instead of from his glass. “Was kind of hoping I could do the same tomorrow, too.” 

The realisation dawned on Daniel and he nodded his sympathy, taking a seat on the recliner by the couch and reaching for the glass Jack had poured for him. “That bad at home, huh?” 

Jack scoffed and shook his head, staring at some spot on the wall ahead of him, looking past the paint and into some memory Daniel wasn’t privy to. “Spend so many nights in other beds that Evelyn finally said I wasn’t welcome in mine anymore. It’s been a while comin’. She’s a great gal, good head on her shoulders. Figures it was only a matter of time.” 

Daniel made no comment about the strange way the news seemed to subdue him, didn’t mention the way Jack’s shoulders slumped as he knocked back another swig from the bottle, or the way he didn’t mention anything about working through his issues to earn his spot back home again. 

“S’just temporary. ‘Til I find a place of my own,” Jack clarified, but Daniel was already nodding, taking a sip of his own drink in solidarity. 

“However long you need.”

#

The reason Daniel stayed out so late those evenings they got drinks after work was simple, really. He didn’t have a penchant for bourbon the way some of the others did, and while he definitely preferred the noise of the bar to the quiet of his apartment, the reason he lingered was the same reason he’d joined the SSR, the same reason he’d lost his leg, the same reason he’d signed up for the war. 

He worried, and he cared, and if he stayed as long as the last of his coworkers, then he knew they’d get home safe, and that made him sleep easier at night. 

Why Thompson stayed out so late--that was a mystery. Sometimes he left with a dame, whispering promises in her ear, charming her despite the fact that he didn’t have to if it was a night he chose to make his wallet lighter. Sometimes he didn’t come at all, too busy working a case or too quiet after an interrogation session to follow his coworkers out. 

But more often than not, they were the last two of the lot there: Daniel with his same glass of bourbon, and Thompson, completely wrecked from booze. 

Daniel learned a lot about him, even when they didn’t talk much. He learned that Thompson could hold his liquor real well. He learned, too, that he could fake soberness just as easily. It was a dangerous habit to look so collected when your hands trembled and your eyes were bloodshot, and it was just as dangerous for Thompson’s grin to be just as crooked and charming as usual. 

Every once in a while, when the bar was darkest, Thompson let his composure slip. 

“What did you think it’d be like? Coming home after… everything.”

The tone was casual, but Thompson didn’t meet his eye as he cracked nuts and tossed them into his mouth, the illusion of interest in the other patrons of the bar shattered when he dared a side-glance Daniel’s way. 

“Dunno,” Daniel finally admitted, shrugging and leaning forward on his forearms as he fiddled with the rim of his glass. 

“Come on. Yes you do,” Thompson insisted, but his voice was quiet, dim as the light, and Daniel’s brows furrowed as he shrugged again. 

“Guess I thought… it’d be just like it was before.” Thompson’s attention was on him, eyes sharp despite the red rim, his smile gone so there was nothing to dilute the weight of his gaze, the pain that creased each line of his face. Daniel took another swig of his drink. “Thought I’d… find a new way to help people, which I did,” he continued, running his fingers through his hair. “Thought I’d find a nice place to myself--not too lavish, m’not like that, but something comfortable, which… I did.” 

Their eyes met again, and Daniel understood why Thompson was the one they sent in for interrogations. The intensity of his baby blues, the expectant firmness of his gaze--or maybe it was the strange vulnerability he peeked through the solemn expression. Either way, Thompson drew the truth out of Daniel without any need for more words. 

“Didn’t think I’d have such a hard time sleeping, though,” Daniel admitted quietly, because there was an embarrassment associated with weakness. He knocked back the rest of his drink and sat back in the booth, shaking his head. “Didn’t think it’d be so rough hearing all those plays on the radio about how brave and good we were out there.” The shame burned worse than the booze, so he waved another drink over, hoping it might dull his senses enough for him to make peace with this conversation. “Didn’t think it’d hurt so bad to see people… trying to pretend we weren’t gone at all.” 

“Yeah…” Jack finally said, nodding into his whiskey. “I really thought I wanted that, too. What a dream it’d be to come back home, marry my girl, move on. Get a dog, maybe. Have some kids eventually. All the things I wanted to do before we got shipped. I didn’t think it’d be so…” Thompson paused, shaking his head and letting out a heavy breath. 

“Yeah,” Daniel agreed. “Me either.” 

#

Those plays on the radio, the ones where Captain America went on incredible adventures and saved the day--they were silly, and Daniel knew it. Anyone who was overseas knew it, that the dramatic heroism was a front to hide the things no one spoke about, that the music in the background was just there to be sold, just an advertisement, and not actually meant to heighten the adventures. But it was a _little_ entertaining, with the bold one-liners, the evil scientists, and if Daniel was being honest, he didn’t mind it when the love interest spoke, all soft and warm, even if her desperate cries for Captain America pulled a chuckle out of him more often than they didn’t. 

More importantly, it filled the silence, which was something that had become incredibly important, even to someone who enjoyed the quiet as much as Daniel Sousa did. 

“Turn that garbage off--thought you’d have better taste than that,” Thompson called from the kitchen, sleeves rolled up as he scrubbed a stubborn spot on a casserole dish. Daniel hummed his acknowledgement of the comment from the bedroom as he busied himself with emptying a drawer from his dresser for Jack’s shirts, socks, and suspenders. He’d tackle the closet next to try to find space for a few suits despite the fact that the other insisted it wasn’t necessary.

“I don’t mind it,” Daniel replied, which wasn’t an elaborate rebuttal, but this was his home, and he figured he didn’t need to justify it. 

There was a breath and a pause, like Thompson was deliberating answering (or, as he was more known for, _arguing_ ), but no words came. Daniel poked his head out through the doorway, suspicious of the victory in this exchange, but he only caught sight of Jack’s back as he continued to furiously scrub at the dish in the sink. 

And when the little chimes on the radio sounded the entry into enemy territory, when the fake gunshots rang out, Daniel saw Jack’s body still, his shoulders tense, and even once the hero saved the day and Jack’s body softened, he was quiet for the rest of the evening, never quite meeting Daniel’s gaze. 

The next day, Daniel dusted off his mother’s old phonograph from his closet and set it up by the couch. When Jack asked about it, Daniel only conceded his agreement that the plays had lost his interest lately, and music was a far better way to kill time. 

Jack’s brows furrowed, his lips curled upward, slight and soft and uncensored. He wiped it off the moment Daniel’s own smile grew, and though they didn’t talk about it, Daniel carried that moment with him and burned the image to memory. 

#

Jack Thompson, the SSR agent, was calm and cold, intimidating and charming. There was a practiced smile in the office, a stoic professionalism, a danger of quiet anger lurking beneath sharp eyes. 

Jack Thompson, Daniel Sousa’s roommate, was different. 

He was restless, always in motion, always home late after work or leaving for walks in the middle of the night. Often, he’d bring things home with him: the scent of perfume and lipstick smears on his collar, or old watches he’d fiddle with until morning came, or, more recently, records that were scratched up but that he liked to test on the phonograph while Daniel pretended to sleep. 

But tonight, there was too much of a racket for Daniel to stay in bed when Jack came home. There was an awful scraping, the sound of things getting knocked over, and he had his gun in hand before he had his crutch. “Jack?” he called, even as he swung the bedroom door open. 

“Gimme a hand, would you?” 

Jack had lost his suit’s jacket and his tie; his sleeves were rolled up and sweat clung to his muscles and forehead as he grunted and caused a ruckus trying to push something through the front door of the apartment. Was that…?

“Where’d you get a piano this late?” 

Daniel was at the other end of the beast, worn and rundown, pulling it with a grunt as Jack pushed, trying to get it through the door. 

“I know a guy,” Jack huffed out through grit teeth and flushed cheeks as he let out a snicker through the physical exertion of trying to get this through. “Owner of this club out on 52nd Street--was just gonna toss it. Told him I’d take it off his hands for him, free of charge.”

“It’s a piece of junk, Jack.” He didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but there was only so much he could deny about this thing. With a clang of heavy wood and out-of-tune keys that would have his neighbours in a frenzy--Daniel closed his eyes and offered a prayer that it wouldn’t be anything Jack’s charming smile couldn’t fix--they got it through the door, Daniel slumping on the wall and wiping his face while Jack grinned and laughed at their victory. 

“You’re not lookin’ at it right--this beast’s gonna shine real nice for us,” Jack insisted, leaving the thing right by the door and sinking into the couch, the scent of booze and tobacco following him just as Daniel did too, falling into the spot beside him. 

“It’s too big for this place,” Daniel said gently.

“We’ll move some stuff around,” Jack replied with his usual nonchalance. The self-assured tone usually rubbed Daniel the wrong way, but now, watching Jack watch the poor beaten up beauty, he already felt himself swayed into agreeing.

Not that there was really any doubt that he’d agree before, if he’d stopped to think about it. 

“You even know how to play?” he asked, a final attempt to fight a losing battle. 

“I learned, yeah. Back when I was still a respectable young man. Used to play a lot before…” The cocky grin faded to something softer, and whether it was the hour or the drink in his system or the steady nature of Daniel’s patience, Jack let himself wear it, this true, uncertain gaze that fit him too properly to deny. “Before things got busy,” he finished, but Daniel heard the unspoken words, saw the rift in time that had changed Jack from a ‘respectable young man’ to someone who had to do what he had to to survive, heard the quiet resignation of his fate in the breaths Jack took before speaking. 

Daniel let his gaze fall back onto the piano. It was going to need a lot of work to look presentable what with the way it leaned on one side too heavily, what with all the scratches in the wood and the pedal no longer attached to it. But maybe if they worked at it together, sanded her down and polished her, learned how to tune her and pluck her strings, they could bring her back to life. Get her to sing again. 

“The neighbours are gonna hate us,” Daniel lamented, but the playfulness crept into his smile and his voice, and it drew Jack’s attention, causing the other to echo it despite the unimpressed brow raised.

“Don’t talk stupid, Sousa. The neighbours love me.” 

Daniel scoffed and Jack grinned bright, and they spent the few hours left until sunrise figuring out how to do right by the new addition to the apartment. 

#

Daniel woke up with a start, pain frying up the nerves in his memory of a leg, sweat soaked through his sleep-shirt and his chest tight with stuttered breathing. He hissed, trying to put pressure on a wound that wasn’t there, and for a moment, with reality blurred, he felt its loss all over again: the wild, frenzied panic, the searing, disorienting pain, the crashing realisation that he’d survived something he’d never meant to. 

It took him a long while to catch his breath, to be able to sit up, but the stillness of the night helped, and he fell back on tricks he’d learned through the years, counting backwards from one hundred until he’d stuffed his brain with numbers so much that it pushed the memories away again.

Sleep wouldn’t come, or rather, Daniel wouldn’t let it, and once his heartbeat was a semblance of normal, he distracted himself how he could. First with thoughts of what the day ahead would entail and then, once he noticed it, he focused on the shadow at the base of his closed door and the sounds slipping through. The crack of light under his door became light and dark again, which wasn’t uncommon seeing as Jack was up at strange hours, but it shifted so regularly, like Jack was pacing right outside, footsteps so quiet that Daniel had to strain his ears to confirm it was happening at all.

Eventually there was a knock, and the door swung open before Daniel could make a decision on whether or not he was going to keep feigning sleep. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Daniel whispered, sleep clinging to his voice; he knew that was why Jack had to be there, checking in on him. He felt hot with shame and warm with gratitude, the feelings a conflicting storm within him.

Daniel let out a surprised grunt when Jack tossed something his way and a jacket landed on his head, obscuring his vision until he pulled it off. He parted his lips, too groggy to voice his confusion, but Jack got to the point without him having to ask.

“I’m going out for a drink, and I don’t feel like going alone.” When Daniel didn’t react, brain still too slow to figure this conundrum out, Jack stepped further into the room, opening the drawers of Daniel’s dresser in the darkness, rummaging for clothes and tossing them onto the bed, just like he’d thrown the jacket. “Come on, we don’t have all night. Plus, I think you owe me a glass of bourbon.”

Daniel sat up slowly, finding himself nodding along to the lie they both knew they were building. “Yeah,” he finally agreed. “Think I remember something about that.”

“Might have been two, now that we’re remembering stuff,” Jack added, a smirk in his voice. 

Daniel got out of bed and got to work getting dressed, glad that the darkness obscured his grateful smile. 

#

Among the various things that Jack scavenged and brought home late at night, Daniel’s favourites were the records he happened to find—especially the ones with higher tempos and smooth singing. 

He was settled on the couch, leaning against the armrest so the lamp’s dim light could make his case notes clearer, and he found himself humming along to the big band sounds that played, swaying slightly in time to the melody. 

“Don’t tell me you like to dance,” Jack huffed, but his scoffs and his smirks were softer these days, or maybe it was just that Daniel had warmed up to them.

“Used to,” Daniel replied, shrugging and nodding toward the crutch leaning against the phonograph. “Back when I could.” Jack rolled his eyes and huffed like Daniel was making some kind of fuss, which caused the man to raise a brow, lips quirked upward in uncertainty. “What? A guy’s not allowed to enjoy music?”

“You still _can_ , Sousa.” 

It was Daniel’s turn to scoff, a genuine laugh escaping him. “Yeah, right. Sure. Real easy to twirl someone around in my condition.” 

The firmness of Jack’s gaze unsettled him for a moment as the man stalked over, but the uncertain smile returned to Daniel when Jack rolled his eyes again, standing right in front of his spot on the couch, hand out expectantly. 

“…what?” Daniel asked, eyeing Jack’s outstretched hand like he couldn’t quite understand the implication, like his heart wasn’t already beating a mile a minute at what it meant. 

“I’m going to--quite graciously, might I add--prove you wrong. Again. Not even gonna charge you for this wisdom, though maybe I should start.” When Daniel didn’t reply, instead choosing to look from Jack’s hand to his face and back again with a raised brow, Jack huffed. “Come on, then, Danny-Boy--I don’t got all day.”

And with an appropriate amount of hesitance, Daniel let himself be helped up, though Jack let go of his hand soon after to push the coffee table to the side and give them more room before falling back into place in front of the other. 

“Alright, so hold me like you would a dame,” Jack instructed, but the further this got, the worse Daniel felt. Even with his hands in place--one against Jack’s waist and the other in Jack’s own--he knew there was no way he could follow a beat this fast and swing the way he used to, or wanted to. And even a comment from Jack about how far he held his women and how that was ‘no way to let a girl know he was interested’ wasn’t enough to lighten his quickly deteriorating mood. Jack tried to get Daniel to lean against him, support his weight on one side more than the other, but it became clear that the tempo was too quick for him to try and match.

It was when Daniel started to pull away, an excuse to get dinner going or work on the case on the tip of his tongue, that Jack finally set his arms down and shook his head, finally acknowledging that this wasn’t working--a notion that added to Daniel’s acceptance of his fate, but also added to the weight he carried on his shoulders.

“We been going about this all wrong,” Jack huffed, glaring at the phonograph like it was to blame before moving over to it and stopping the record. 

“It’s not a big deal, Jack. It’s not like I got time for dancing anyway.” 

“Exactly,” Jack huffed, filing through the records he’d started collecting since his time here and finally pulling one out and setting it to play, a small scratch of the needle followed by smooth, slow jazz. “Guys like us, we ain’t got time for dance halls anymore. Leave that to the kids. If you’re gonna be dancing, it’s gonna be with someone that matters, right? And _that_ you can do.” 

The confidence was infectious despite Daniel’s acknowledgement that this was a bad idea. That was why, when Jack stepped into his space once more, he let himself put his hand on his hip again, his other in Jack’s hand again, and if maybe he was closer than before, well, it was just because Jack was right, wasn’t he? If Daniel was going to be dancing with anyone, it’d be because he wanted to be closer to them, because dancing was something he enjoyed and he wanted to enjoy it with someone, and how could you do that if you stood too far apart?

They barely moved their feet, instead swaying to the slower, softer rhythm, and Jack’s victorious _told you so_ smirk was met with a fond eye-roll and an exaggeratedly annoyed exhale from Daniel. It was bad for Jack’s ego for him to be right, but Daniel was still grateful for it, was happy to be wrong, was glad he could still do this--move someone with him, guide someone to the beat of his own pulse, one that matched the music perfectly.

The record played on, the two of them becoming more daring--a slow waltz forming through Jack’s huffing and missteps because he had to do it backwards--until eventually Daniel found himself humming to the melody, both their legs less clumsy despite the newness of the situation. 

When the phonograph scratched, the album over, they pulled away awkwardly after lingering perhaps a moment too long, though Thompson’s snicker and smirk put them right back to normalcy.

“See? Once you find the right partner, you’ll be dancing just like you used to. Just don’t think I’ll be covering your night shifts ‘cause you find yourself in the company of a dame who likes to be twirled about. I’m nice, but I’m not _that_ nice.”

Daniel rolled his eyes and made his way to the kitchen, glad his back was turned to Jack so the other couldn’t see how bright his smile became when he heard Jack start the record over.

#

“The new girl working the front is a looker. ‘Bout time you changed saddle and found yourself another dame, Thompson, don’t you think?” 

“Gotta jump on that before Krzeminski somehow convinces her he’s a gentleman and steals her.” 

They laughed from their desks, despite Daniel’s firm, _“Come on, now--that’s a lady you’re talking about, not a piece of meat.”_ Some raised their arms in surrender, some rolled their eyes--Thompson among them--but the jibes went on. They _did_ tone it down, which was really what mattered, as the agents ate their lunches at their desks, too swamped with work to leave for a meal but too tense about the case not to take a break while they had the chance. 

Of course Thompson was seated on top of his desk like he ruled the place, the others all turned to face him while they ate. Daniel found himself victim to his charm, too, but it was different these days. When their eyes met, the sharpness of those baby blues seemed softer, and Daniel always felt a little too warm, a little too stared at, in a way he wasn’t sure he disliked. There was a seed of warmth in his chest, comfortable despite its weight, and when Thompson rolled his eyes Daniel’s way at someone’s tomfoolery, like it was some kind of inside joke between them, he could feel inklings of heat spread from it. 

“But seriously, that broad--what was her name? Evelyn? That was ages ago. You must be parched,” Krzeminski laughed through a bite of his sandwich, others following suit, despite the unimpressed look Daniel shot them. 

“Nah,” Thompson finally said. “Too busy for a gal to hold me down just yet.” 

“That true, Sousa? Come on, spill. Thompson’s gotta have a new girl over every night, ain’t he?” 

All eyes fell on Daniel who, still chewing last night’s leftovers, was wide-eyed and completely caught off guard. After swallowing his mouthful, he shrugged. “He hasn’t brought anyone over, actually. Figure no one’s caught his attention just yet.” 

Of course, Daniel kept to himself the fact that Jack came home less and less often smelling of perfume, that he seemed to be finding other ways to pass the time at night--like finding records with just the right rhythm that made Daniel smile brightest, or fixing up that old piano, or drinking home instead of out at bars, where Daniel kept him company. None of their business, really. 

“I got bigger fish to fry, unlike you doll-dizzy good-for-nothings,” Thompson told the room, crooked smile in place. 

“Bigger fish like figuring out the Benson case? ‘Cause oh, wait, that was me and Yauch,” Daniel teased, grinning just as bright and honestly glad to shift the conversation away from women. 

“Watch it, Sousa,” Jack huffed, pointing his fork at the other in way that would be threatening if not for the fact that his lips were still curled upward. “You only caught that perp ‘cause I helped you with your shoddy casework.” 

Through the laughter, Krzeminski said, “Look at ‘em, bickering like an old married couple. ‘Course he ain’t looking for a new gal--Sousa’s already got him on the ball and chain.” 

Daniel laughed and rolled his eyes as the jibes kept coming, but when he met Jack’s gaze to offer a playful shrug and an exaggerated _what can you do?_ at the good-natured teasing, his smile dimmed. 

Jack’s shoulders were tight, his gaze heavy with a weight Daniel didn’t understand, his smile gone from happy to cold and professional. And when he chuckled, though it sounded just the same as his laughter before, there was no warmth from it. 

The worst part of Jack’s shift was the flash of anger that made his jaw tight and eyes sharp in a way that had Daniel’s brows furrowing in confusion.

It didn’t take long for Jack to hop off the desk after that. “Alright, fun time’s over, ladies--back to work.”

He didn’t acknowledge Daniel for the rest of the day. 

When Jack finally came home, Daniel looked up from reading the paper to greet him, except tonight, Jack brought with him a cold that was bone-deep, a glare meant for an enemy, and Daniel’s stomach turned to lead at being caught on the receiving end of it. 

But he didn’t drop his gaze. He wouldn’t be the first one to look away.

“There’s dinner out on the counter for you,” he said, quiet and steady, but Thompson just scoffed and crossed the living room to reach for the liquor cabinet instead, pulling out a bottle of something too strong to swig straight up--not that you could tell when Jack did just that.

Daniel set his paper down and sat up straighter.

“You wanna tell me what your problem is?”

Thompson shook his head, scoffed under his breath, lips upturned in a mimicry of a smile, pacing the length of the living room like some kind of wild animal. This was the man criminals feared in the interrogation room, the energy of a man who could make anyone sing with a swing hard enough, and Daniel watched him, jaw set, determined to face it head on. 

“How long have I been here now? Few weeks? Few months? And I’m waiting--just _waiting_ \--for you to bring it up. But you don’t, do you?”

The confusion made it easier for Daniel to ignore the growing sense of danger. “What? What the Hell are you talking about?” 

“Savin’ it for something good, I bet. Waiting for me to get back on my feet to knock me right back down by tellin’ me it’s all ‘cause you opened your door to me, let me in like a stray goddamned cat, and I owe you. Is that it?” Jack’s voice grew in volume just as it did in intensity, his nostrils flaring with each exhale. 

Daniel’s brows pinched together even as he stood, as he leaned on the couch with one hand and reached out with the other in an attempt to pacify the beast the other man was quick becoming. “Jack--”

“‘Cause you know what? You _haven’t_ called me out on it. Haven’t knocked me down a peg, but you could have. You _can_. It’s just a breath away-- _always_. You let me sleep here, let me wash up here, let me eat your goddamned food--”

“I don’t mind any of that,” Daniel said, voice firm despite his heart beating right in his throat, clogging his airways. “But I mind you being a Grade-A asshole right now, that’s for sure.” 

Jack laughed, misery overpowering any semblance of mirth, and took another swig from the bottle. “So if you’re not waiting to knock me down, then that leaves the only alternative.” The pacing slowed, but the drinking didn’t. Jack looked Daniel square in the eye, bottle gripped tight in his fist even as he pointed an accusing finger at him. “You’re _pathetic_.” 

Daniel went still, the confusion etched against the creases of his face.

“Look at you, Sousa. Why else would you let me stay here unless it was true? You’re pathetic, and you’re _lonely_ , and that’s why you’d let me in, ‘cause who else is gonna spend their nights with you, huh? You came back from war broken.” In the moment that Daniel’s shoulders fell, the breath knocked out of him, brown eyes flicking to the crutch, Jack almost looked surprised at his own words, his anger turned to some kind of wild desperation that was too out of focus to understand. Still, words spilled from him, disgusting and uncensored, the anger cooled but his words no less powerful. “You’re _broken_ , Sousa, and no matter what you do, no matter how well you do your job, no matter what you can convince people of, that’s just the truth of it,” Jack finished, voice a hoarse whisper now, void of whatever tempest had knocked him into the apartment earlier. 

It took Daniel a moment, then another, but his shoulders straightened and his gaze hardened. “I don’t think I’m the one we’re talking about here. And I think maybe you know that.” 

The words hung between them, nothing but Jack’s strained breathing to break the quiet, as they stared each other down. Daniel eventually turned his eyes away, head hung low as he shook it, unable to meet the pain in Jack’s gaze, afraid it would break him. 

“You don’t get to talk to me that way. I know my worth, even if you don’t know yours.” A pause. A strained, breathless chuckle. “Christ, Thompson, I thought we were past this. I thought we were…” Daniel’s voice trailed off, the words clogging his throat. 

“What?” Jack asked, taking a step closer. “You thought we were what?” 

“Closer, or… _just_. I just _thought_ we were--”

“Say it,” Jack pressed, though Daniel didn’t know the answer he was looking for. “ _Say it_. What did you think we were, Daniel? What _is_ this?” A broken plea from a desperate man. Daniel’s mind was a mess, fogged with worry and bravery and cowardice all at once--too consumed with Jack’s haunted gaze, the weight of his breaths, to think through the rest of his response. 

He leaned forward, a hand against Jack’s shirt, and kissed him. It was barely a whisper of pressure, chaste and soft, an imprint of the warmth that had grown within him since Jack started living there. And in the small moment of eternity that it lasted, Daniel felt Jack press into him, felt calloused fingers against his neck, keeping him close.

Daniel pulled away, dazed and breathless but too uncertain to smile. “I thought we were _good_ , Jack. That’s all I meant.” 

Jack’s breath became Daniel’s own as they looked at each other, the firm decisiveness of honey-warm eyes meeting the cold uncertainty of Thompson’s baby blues. Jack was careful, hesitant, _afraid_ \--from this close, Daniel could feel it in Jack’s pulse, saw it flash behind his gaze, knew it from the flush of his cheeks and the tightness of his chest. 

“We’re not good, Daniel,” Jack whispered. “This is a disaster waiting to happen.”

Jack’s thumb stroked Daniel’s jawline, tilting his head up carefully, slow and uncertain, before he pressed their lips together once more. 

#

Daniel felt the pressure of his hard day escape the moment he stepped inside the doorway, glad to finally be home. 

The feeling didn’t last long.

“What, uh… what’re you doing?” Daniel asked from his spot frozen in the doorway despite the obvious nature of Jack’s actions. His suitcase was open on the coffee table, a mountain of shirts and socks neatly folded within, and on the ground beside it there were cardboard boxes--some records piled high and easily visible. The same ones Jack had gifted him. 

“What’s it look like I’m doing, Sousa? I’m packing.”

Daniel waited a moment, his chest tighter the longer Jack ignored him in favour of going around the room, collecting his affairs and sorting them into boxes. 

“I… yeah, I can see that,” Daniel clarified, brows furrowed as he dared take a step deeper into his home. Hadn’t they gotten past this? “ _Why?_ ” 

“We both know this place is too cramped for both of us--is this mine or yours?” Jack asked, examining a watch by the phonograph, face pinched in concentration as he tried to figure it out. In the end, he shrugged, grinned bright and crooked, and pocketed it. “Don’t matter, I suppose,” he said, and the whole thing was far too wild, far too nonchalant, for Daniel to come to grips with. 

He shut the front door and came by the suitcase at the center of the room, trying to ignore the churning of his stomach and trying instead to focus on making sense of this, of Jack’s life scattered in his living room, a folded up newspaper with markings in bright red circling different apartments. He pulled out a tie that was _definitely_ his from the top of the clothing pile Jack had amassed, giving him an accusing look, only to get another shrug in return. 

“I found this place right off of Lexington--way better. Bigger bathroom, way better view, walking distance to that place we like to get dinner from when we work late--”

“Jack, you don’t have to go. I told you, didn’t I? I don’t mind you being here--”

But Jack was shaking his head, finally straightened up, hands finally idle, as he gave Daniel the attention this conversation deserved. 

“This ain’t my home, Daniel. It’s _yours_. And I been trying to make peace with that, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

Understanding settled, a familiar weight, sharper than he was used to, the edges jagged and piercing, but Daniel knew he could handle this, just like he knew he could handle anything else that got thrown his way. 

Didn’t make it ache any less. 

“And anyway, we need something with a bedroom big enough to fit two dressers, ‘cause the last time I got dressed in the dark I grabbed your monstrosity of a shirt and had to deal with lookin’ less than ace all day.” 

Daniel blinked, confusion overpowering the weight of his pain. “What?” 

“It’s that one with the pattern, you know? The one that’s not-quite green--good on you, matches your eyes and all, but just terrible on me and I had to endure it all day, and--”

“No, go back. What was that thing you said about the two dressers?” 

It was Jack’s turn to blink. “That was it. That was the whole thing. Keep up, Sousa.” 

The confusion was still obvious, Daniel’s brain going a mile a minute trying to figure it out, his eyes flicking around the room to take it all in as if something would clue him in on it all, which was when Jack stepped forward, right in his personal space, a brow raised and a smile, cocky and sure, hiding the uncertainty of his movements as he reached for Daniel’s forearm, sliding his fingers lower, impossibly gentle, until their hands brushed. “‘Course you’re coming with me, Danny-Boy. You think I’m gonna move that beast of a piano on my own? No way to convince you to help me with it unless we’re both moving into the same place, right?” 

Daniel scoffed and rolled his eyes, his smile coming unbidden, so bright it ached his cheeks, and it pulled a laugh right out of Jack, and maybe bolstered his courage, too, because he laced their fingers together, careful and tentative and perfect. 

“You’re an asshole,” he reprimanded, his own courage reaching dangerous levels as he squeezed the hand in his own right back. “Usually people talk these things through.” 

“You said I could stick around as long as I needed. Didn’t peg you as a liar.” 

Daniel promptly silenced Jack’s impending snicker by leaning up and pressing their smiles together, slow and sweet and steady, as Jack tugged him closer by their joined hands. 

“M’kind of hoping it’s not as temporary an arrangement as I made it sound that first night I came over,” Jack said, words pressed right up against Daniel’s lips, vulnerable and sincere in a way Daniel knew most weren’t privy to. 

“I’m not afraid of the long-haul. You don’t scare me, Thompson.”

Daniel felt Jack’s smile grow against him as he claimed another kiss. When they pulled away, Jack cleared his throat, cheeks flushed though he was adamant about ignoring it, which only made Daniel smile more broadly. 

“Come on, I couldn’t find your suitcase, and I’m not packing up all your junk for you, Sousa. You gotta put in some effort if you want this to work.” 

Daniel hummed his agreement, rolled up his sleeves, and got to it.


End file.
